


Mistletoe Merriment

by geekprincess26



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Clueless lovebirds, Comedy, F/M, Holiday Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 08:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13026744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekprincess26/pseuds/geekprincess26
Summary: Theon Greyjoy loves kissing pretty girls, so naturally he loves breaking out the mistletoe and spiked punch every year at the Starks' annual Christmas party.  And every year, the girl he kissed the prior year shows up with an awesome new boyfriend - every girl except for Sansa Stark, who ends up with slimy, pathetic gits.  Theon will have to go to ridiculous lengths, not to mention risk the legendary wrath of Jon Snow, in order to get Sansa the boyfriend she deserves.  But he'll do it, because Theon Greyjoy is a loyal friend - and he'll never let a stupid sprig of mistletoe get the better of him.





	Mistletoe Merriment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [subjunctive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/gifts).



> Written for subjunctive as part of the Holidays round of the amazing Jonsa Exchange. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

It all started the year Theon Greyjoy kissed Margaery Tyrell at the Starks’ Christmas party.

 

Catelyn Stark had a fondness for mistletoe, and she scattered sprigs and of it all over her house when she did her Christmas decorating every year. Rumor had it she had acquired a taste for the plant when she and her husband Ned had had their first kiss underneath a spot of it in her grandmother’s kitchen when he had been helping her with the dishes after her family’s Christmas party. And he never failed to find a bunch under which to sweep his wife every year, even decades into their marriage.

 

Catelyn, however, was also more than wise to the unpredictability of teenage hormones, so once Robb and Sansa hit their adolescent years, she stopped hanging standalone bunches in the middle of the ceilings and instead wove sprigs into the Christmas wreaths decorating the walls and the evergreen garlands wound around the banisters. Nobody ever noticed it much, although on occasion Theon caught Ned and Catelyn kissing fiercely under one or the other of the wreaths on the family room wall when he snuck out of Robb’s room to filch a drink from the downstairs refrigerator. One year the Starks rearranged the family room furniture, and the wreath happened to be hung over one of the couches. Ned and Cat both had quite a bit of Arbor Gold at that year’s party, and Theon, unfortunately, snuck out of Robb’s room exceptionally late, well after everybody should have been in bed. He wasn’t sure his eyes or ears would ever quite stop burning from the display he’d witnessed the Stark parents putting on that night.

 

Still, Theon had eyes, and he couldn’t help but notice how drop-dead gorgeous Sansa, the elder Stark daughter, was. By the time she went off to college she’d grown as tall as a model and every bit as hot. She had a head of fiery red hair that could light up a room, and she had legs for miles and one holy hell of a body. But Sansa was Robb’s sister, and that meant she was _way_ off limits. The one time he’d tried to flirt with her, Robb had shouted, “Oi, Greyjoy! You wanna try that again?”, and Jon Snow, Robb’s broody best friend who barely ever said a word, stalked over and shoved him away from Sansa.

 

“Leave off her, Greyjoy,” he’d growled, making a noise in his throat Theon could have sworn sounded more wolf than human, and Theon did.

 

Then he went to the first session of Psychology 101 his sophomore year in college and laid eyes on Margaery Tyrell. So did every other guy in the room. Hell, the girl was a knockout. She might not be as tall as Sansa, but she had the finest backside a man could ask to look at, hourglass curves for days, and a saucy smile that made Theon drool. She had the professor eating out of her hand by the end of the first class period, and it didn’t take much longer for Theon to realize her flirtation game was a fearsome thing to behold – almost as fearsome as his. Try as he might, though, he could not get her to give him the time of day. He tried every grin and wink in his repertoire. He attended her volleyball games. Hell, he trotted out pickup lines he reserved for only the hottest, smartest, classiest girls in his life. All he got for it, though, was a smattering of smiles, and they weren’t those big, bold grins he saw her use on other people. She knew how to play it coy, Theon would give her that.

 

So he waited to make his move until that year’s Stark Christmas party. After Bran and Rickon, the two youngest Starks, had gone to bed, Theon spiked the punch bowl and helped him to several glasses. Then he nicked a sprig of mistletoe from one of Catelyn’s wreaths, duct-taped it to the doorway between the basement’s family room and game room, filled another cup with punch, and offered it to Margaery along with his most winning smile just as she stepped under the mistletoe. A snigger spilled out of Theon before he could stop it – in fact, he managed to stifle a string of moment-ruining giggles only just in time – and when she raised an eyebrow at him, he saw his opening. Clearly, he’d intrigued her. The long game had paid off – now it was time to close the deal. He closed the distance between them in a flash, pulled her flush against him, and gave her his most swoon-worthy kiss. He might have hiccupped a bit in the middle of it, but Margaery did not seem to notice. In fact, when he finally let her go, she winked at him. Theon’s eyes lit up, but Margaery shook her head and clicked her tongue at him.

 

“I’m flattered, Greyjoy,” she cooed, “but I’m very particular about the caliber of kisser I need.” She turned her back to him, stalked off to the punch bowl, ladled herself a glass, and drained it all in one go. Across the room, Robb and his friends Pyp Black and Grenn Wall burst out laughing. So did Shae Smith and Myrcella Baratheon, who had been tittering over on the other side of the room.

 

Well, son of a bitch. Theon Greyjoy had never been played quite so hard.

 

Theon slunk toward the pool table, but before he got there he saw Sansa Stark out of the corner of his eye. She swept over to Margaery and the others, flashing one of her megawatt smiles at something. Theon goggled at her for a moment before turning out of instinct to check for Robb and Jon. Robb was nowhere in sight, but Jon was sitting in the corner holding a beer and looking even gogglier than Theon.

 

He was staring at Sansa Stark, too.

 

_Weird,_ Theon thought before he passed out in the nearest chair. Snow must have been drunker than he thought.

 

By the time next year rolled around, Margaery had begun dating Robb Stark. Theon’s one consolation was that she brought her friend Ros North, a curvaceous redhead with a wicked grin and a reputation to match. Two beers and two glasses of punch into the evening, Theon snagged another sprig of mistletoe and taped it over the same doorway. He approached Ros with a glass of punch, just as he had done with Margaery, and graced her with his much-improved kiss, which he’d practiced thoroughly with a couple of week-long girlfriends the prior year. Barely five seconds into the kiss, Ros burst into giggles, pulled away, and patted Theon on the head.

 

“Poor baby,” she snickered. Theon still couldn’t quite tear his gaze from the way her bright, full red lips caressed the words. She tilted her head so those lips were nearly brushing Theon’s ear. Theon’s face went as red as Ros’s hair.

 

“I like to roll with men, dear,” she whispered. “I’ve had enough of the boys.” She whirled around, giving Theon a view of her perfect ass, and sauntered over to talk to Myrcella Baratheon and Shae Smith, who were giggling like crazy.

 

_Bloody hell._ Maybe he was losing his game. Thank gods Robb hadn’t noticed – he was too busy snogging Margaery Tyrell in the next room. Nor did Jon Snow, who was in his usual corner but talking to Sansa Stark instead of nursing his usual beer.

 

Theon raised an imaginary glass to Sansa. The girl had more tricks than he did if she could get Mr. Antisocial himself to _smile_ at a party.

 

The following year, with both Robb and Jon occupied at the pool table, Theon used his mistletoe – and, of course, the punch – on Sansa Stark, who got more stunning every year. Sansa gave a startled yelp and shoved him backward. Theon stumbled wildly and nearly fell on his backside, only saving himself by crashing into the wall.

 

“Geez, Greyjoy,” said Sansa, rolling her eyes. “Sod off. You’re drunk.”

 

“Oi!” Suddenly Jon Snow’s glowering face obscured Theon’s field of vision. “Leave her be, Greyjoy.”

 

“He’s just drunk, Jon.” Sansa’s soft voice sounded from somewhere behind the curly-headed menace currently occupying Theon’s shifting eyesight. “We should get him to Robb’s room.”

 

Jon shook his head. “Robb and I’ll get him,” he said. “You should stay and – and have fun.”

 

His hand reached over to rub the back of his head. Somewhere between slumping to the floor and staring at Ros, who had come to the party with her new, rich boyfriend, Theon risked another glance at Jon. His face looked awfully red.

 

The following year, Sansa brought Myrcella’s nasty older brother Joffrey to the Starks’ Christmas party. Joffrey had loved nothing more than bullying Theon and anyone else he felt owed him some human misery back in high school, and from the moment he swept into the Starks’ house looking as though he owned it, Theon could tell the blond prick hadn’t changed one bit.

 

_Good God,_ thought Theon as he unscrewed a bottle of rum over the punch bowl and watched Joffrey snap at Sansa for the third time in an hour. The guy was one hell of a douche. And even if Theon didn’t stand a chance with Sansa, he knew she deserved better than that twat.

 

But hot damn if Joffrey Baratheon didn’t have a gorgeous sister. She entered the room just then, and Theon’s eyes bulged almost out of their sockets. Myrcella got prettier every year, especially when she wore short, sparkly dresses like that…

 

Not until Myrcella had headed over to talk to Shae Smith did Theon realize he’d accidentally dumped the entire bottle of rum, instead of only half, into the punch bowl. _Oops._

 

So it only took Theon until his third glass of punch to get drunk enough to kiss Myrcella under the mistletoe. She squealed and flung his arm away from her.

 

“Go away, Theon,” she said in that tone of prim disapproval not even Sansa Stark could match. “You’re drunk.”

 

Theon giggled. “I kn-know!” he agreed. “It’s called letting loose, Myrcella. You should try it some time.” He gave her his most charmingly subtle wink, although somehow he sensed that it was not coming off as subtly as he wanted it to. Myrcella merely rolled her eyes and strode off in Margaery Tyrell’s direction. Halfway there, she frowned and changed course, this time to where her brother was snapping at Sansa yet again. Jon Snow, however, got over there before she could, and before Baratheon knew what had hit him, Snow spun him around by the arm and started growling at him. He really did look almost like a snapping Rottweiler, Theon thought, and managed a few more giggles before he collapsed on the nearest couch.

 

The following year, Sansa had dumped Joffrey Baratheon, who was smart enough not to show his face at the Starks’ party. His sister showed up, though, on the arm of Trystane Martell, who spent much of the evening getting his ass handed to him at pool by Arya Stark. The spirited younger Stark daughter was in an even feistier mood that night; she had apparently lost some bet or other with Sansa and had to wear a dress to the party, instead of her usual baggy sweatshirt and jeans, as a result. Now she was taking out her anger on the pool balls and not missing a beat despite the constraints of her form-fitting dress. Luckily, Trystane was a good sport about it, and so was Jon Snow, who got her frown to transform into a hearty laugh by the end of his second match with her.

 

_Damn._ Who knew Arya Stark could look that good when she smiled?

 

Theon hadn’t until now, but after a few glasses of punch, he decided to show his appreciation. Unfortunately, those glasses had made him forget just how proficient Arya was at martial arts. His lips were on hers for all of one and a half seconds before she twisted his arm around and kicked him to the floor. She emptied the glass of punch he’d offered her onto his face for good measure.

 

“Bugger off, Greyjoy,” she spat, and stomped off. Gendry Waters and Grenn Wall whooped from their perch in the corner. Arya glared at them, and they promptly subsided. Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, whom Arya had startled out of one of those philosophical sci-fi discussions they’d gotten so fond of all the way back in college, both had shit-eating grins on their faces. Luckily, Arya was too busy stomping over to the refrigerator for a beer to notice them.

 

Theon snorted, and then winced when he felt the remnants of Arya’s drink getting sucked into his nostrils. That hurt worse than the kick she’d given him, although he had a feeling that if Arya had really wanted to hurt him, she’d simply have knocked him out cold. The girl was bloody fierce, he thought, grinning, although he waited to make sure she was safely across the room before pushing himself off the floor.

 

He was mildly surprised when Gendry showed up as Arya’s boyfriend to the following year’s Christmas party. _Aw, shit. Another one bites the dust._

 

Wait. _Another one?_

 

Theon stopped cold in the game room doorway on his way to retrieve the rum, which he’d stashed in the spare room he was occupying for the night.

 

Last year, when Theon had kissed her, she hadn’t had a boyfriend, and now she had Gendry. The year before that, it had been Myrcella Baratheon, and she’d begun dating Trystane Martell the month following the party. That had been the year Sansa Stark had shown up with Myrcella’s jackass of a brother, but they hadn’t gotten together until after Theon had kissed Sansa the prior year.

 

Back when Ros had shown up with that rich asshole, whom she’d only snatched up from gods knew where after Theon had tried his mistletoe game on her a year prior. And that had been the year Margaery had started dating Robb Stark, but not until after Theon had kissed her a year before that.

 

Theon scratched his head. _Well, shit._ Apparently the mistletoe worked after all, if not exactly the way he wanted it to. He frowned. It hadn’t worked so well for Sansa, though. Every other girl he’d kissed had done all right – hell, Robb and Margaery were engaged now, and so were Myrcella and Trystane – but all Sansa had gotten was six months of preening viciousness from Myrcella’s jackass brother.

 

Theon scratched his head again. Maybe that problem could be remedied.

 

“And you told Mum about the wreaths down here, right?” Sansa swept up to the punch bowl alongside Robb. “Gods know Theon won’t leave the bloody stuff alone if he gets an eyeful of it.”

 

Robb nodded as he poured her a glass of punch. When he reached out to hand it to her, she regarded him with a sharply raised eyebrow. Her brother held out both hands in a gesture of utter placation.

 

“Yes, I spoke to Mum, as requested,” he answered. “You should know by now that when a woman in my life asks me to do a favor, I am only too happy to oblige.”

 

A flurry of giggles bubbled out of Sansa’s mouth. “Oh, I know,” she remarked, wiggling both eyebrows at him. “How could I ever forget all three hours’ worth of assistance you gave Margaery and me when we were looking bridesmaids’ dresses?”

 

Robb rolled his eyes and mumbled something Theon couldn’t hear. Sansa grinned and kissed him on the cheek.

 

“I love you, too, big bro,” she said in her sweetest voice.

 

Theon shook his head. Margaery Tyrell really did have Stark trained in the art of pleasing women. But he was still sorely lacking in the art of keeping up with Theon Greyjoy.

 

Theon headed back toward the spare room. He’d found out a couple of years ago that Catelyn Stark stashed her mistletoe in one of the laundry room cupboards. She’d asked him to stay at the house for a few hours with Bran and Rickon, whom she had deemed not yet old enough to watch themselves, while she and Ned headed off to Torrhen’s Square to rescue Arya and her broken-down car, and they’d amused themselves with a few rounds of hide-and-seek when the boys’ PlayStation had short-circuited. Theon had opened the cupboard looking for Rickon, who’d been just small enough to fit in it, but had found the mistletoe instead. Every year since then, he’d helped himself to a sprig when the mood had taken him to kiss a beautiful girl. Robb and Sansa probably didn’t even know it was there.

 

Theon opened the cupboard door, smirking. _Amateurs._

 

He snuck back into the game room just in time to watch Sansa and Arya kick Margaery and Shae to all get-out on the foosball table. Sansa giggled and did that funny little skip on one foot that she’d always done when beating one of her siblings at a game, and her red hair danced in the shimmer of the overhead lights.

 

Across the room, Jon Snow froze with his beer bottle halfway to his mouth. His eyes were glazed over, and a very stupid grin was painted on his normally dour face. Theon could sympathize with him, although this was hardly the time for it. He had mistletoe to wrangle and some bloke other than Joffrey Baratheon to find as a boyfriend for Sansa.

 

Now that his mission was clearer, Theon discovered, he needed fewer glasses of punch than usual. After all, he was no longer trying to snag Sansa for himself. He, Theon Greyjoy, was sacrificing some of his happiness to help her find her own.

 

He grinned as he made his way over to Sansa, but the grin faded when she pulled away a mere second after their lips had touched.

 

“You’re drunk again, Theon,” she sighed, and then Theon’s grin vanished altogether, because Jon Snow had grabbed him by the arm, dragged him halfway across the room, and deposited him briskly into a chair. It was an old recliner, and Jon bumped the faulty side lever as he pushed Theon down into the cushions. Both the footrest and Theon’s feet flew into the air, and Theon yelped. _Ouch._ Jon, however, did not miss a beat.

 

“Leave off her, Greyjoy,” he growled. “Stop bloody pawing like that. It’s not funny.” He slapped the sprig of mistletoe, which judging by the torn duct tape hanging off it he had just ripped from its position in the doorway.

 

“’M not drunk,” Theon protested. Buzzed, after all, was not the same thing as drunk. He hadn’t even been drunk since last Christmas. “And I wasn’t _pawing._ ”

 

Jon Snow, however, did not hear that, for Sansa had walked up to him to lay her hand on his shoulder. The anger melted off his face as he did so, and his eyes and voice gentled at the speed of light.

 

“You all right?” he murmured, and Sansa nodded. She threw a blanket over Theon, who was still gaping at Jon.

 

“Get some rest, Theon,” she said. Theon shook his head.

 

“It’s the mistletoe,” he insisted. He picked up the spring and held it out to Sansa, who only shook her head.

 

“Rest, Theon,” she repeated, and turned to speak to Jon.

 

Theon bumped his head back against the chair’s headrest. “Mistletoe,” he groaned again, but nobody paid any attention to him.

 

At least his pain had not been for nothing, he reflected the following year when Sansa showed up at the party with a Ken-doll lookalike called Harry Hardyng. He didn’t snap at her, or anyone else for that matter, and Theon sighed with relief as he poured a third of the contents of his rum bottle – he couldn’t quite hold his liquor as well now as he’d done in the past – into the punch bowl. Sansa was brimming with smiles, and, as was her wont, her mirth infected everyone she spoke to. The only exception was Jon Snow, who looked even more dour than usual. He spent most of the night playing pool and foosball with Pyp, Grenn, Sam Tarly, and their girlfriends, and spoke to Sansa hardly at all. That was the only time, however, that the dour look left his face.

 

_Huh._ Theon was so absorbed in Snow’s altered demeanor that he completely forgot to refill the punch bowl with rum.

 

He also forgot to kiss a girl.

 

When he returned to the Starks’ house the following Christmas, Sansa was once again single. Hardyng, it turned out, was as lousy a wanker as Joffrey Baratheon, for he’d spent nearly the entire relationship cheating on Sansa. She’d cried her eyes out, quit her job in King’s Landing, and moved back to Wintertown. Theon had taken to hanging out with her now and again, which also usually meant hanging out with Arya, Gendry, and Jon. Sometimes Theon would bring a girl and make it a double (or triple) date. Not that Sansa was dating Jon or anything, but they acted an awful lot like it sometimes. Theon Greyjoy, after all, had eyes and ears. He saw the way Sansa squealed and huddled against Jon’s shoulder when whatever movie they’d gone out to got freaky or intense, as well as how quickly Jon wrapped his arm around her in response. He heard them finish each other’s sentences while thrashing Theon’s ass at Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit. He heard the low growl rumbling in Jon’s throat when they were out at a restaurant and Sansa went to the bar to get a round of drinks, only to get hit on by a couple of random guys. He saw Jon’s eyes light up when they picked Sansa up for Margaery Tyrell’s grandmother’s midsummer ball and she dashed down the stairs apologizing for being late in a shiny golden gown that made her look like a goddess. He saw Jon’s jaw drop, and he saw the weird, hazy look on the other man’s face. It was a look Jon displayed more and more often as the months wore on, and he started to wonder whether it wasn’t even more annoying than the broody scowl Jon used to favor.

 

Then he heard Jon crack a joke one day. Well, it was more an actual pun than a joke, but in any case, Jon Snow had displayed humor – _humor_ – and there was Sansa, laughing like she hadn’t a care in the world. She put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, and Theon saw the flush coloring the back of the other man’s neck, and he heard Jon mumbling something about not being a comedian or a bleeding poet. Sansa just smiled and said, “You underestimate a lot of things about yourself, Jon Snow,” and then Margaery Tyrell came over to talk to her, and when Sansa looked back over her shoulder at Jon, she bit her lip and got one of those weird, hazy looks on her face that Jon only got around her.

 

_Aw, man._

 

Theon wanted to kiss Sansa for a third time at the Starks’ Christmas party that year. He really did. Maybe then Snow would actually grow the balls to ask her out.

 

Or maybe she’d end up with somebody as bad as Baratheon or Hardyng.

 

He couldn’t risk it.

 

But then Jon plodded down the stairs into the Starks’ family room, and Sansa’s face lit up with another of her gorgeous, hazy smiles, and Jon gave her one of his dopey grins, and Theon suddenly knew what he had to do.

 

_Oh,_ shit _._

 

He really was getting to be a lightweight, because he started to go fuzzy on just his fourth beer – he’d skipped spiking the punch, because it was way too important that both Jon and Sansa be sober for this. If either of them got even the slightest buzz, they might read way too much into things, and tomorrow they’d be back to pussyfooting around everything, and Theon would be damned if he let all his hard work and sacrifice go to waste.

 

So he screwed up his courage, hung up another sprig of mistletoe, dropped his plate and let the chips and popcorn on it spill to the floor, and loudly hailed Jon to come over and help him. As soon as Jon bent down, Theon wrinkled his face, planted his lips smack on the latter’s mouth for as short a moment as his reflexes would allow, and spat onto his empty plate. Jon whirled around as though Theon had just set him on fire. Theon, startled, lost his balance and sat smack on the floor.

 

“There you are,” he hiccupped, still gagging. “Gods, you taste bloody awful. Now go – ” he gestured wildly in Sansa’s direction – “go ask her to be your girlfriend. I’ve given you the lucky charm, mate.”

 

He waved his hand in the direction of the mistletoe, which was hanging forlornly in the doorway. Jon stared at him as though unable to decide whether to punch Theon or ask him what the bloody hell he meant. Then his gaze turned to Sansa, who was blushing furiously and biting her lip and looking at Jon with the same googly, silly looks as he was giving her. Theon opened his mouth to yell at them to just kiss already, but all that came out was a loud belch.

 

“’Bout bloody time,” said several voices behind him. Theon turned to see Gendry, Arya, and Margaery directing identical Cheshire-cat grins at a red-faced Jon, who was scratching his ear and listening with rapt attention to something an equally red-faced Sansa was saying. She took his arm and led him into the hallway, out of Theon’s sight.

 

“Huh.” Theon turned again to see Arya Stark regarding him curiously. “Not sure which one’ll give Mum the bigger heart attack – those idiots seeing the bloody light or you being useful for once, Greyjoy.” Theon opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand.

 

“Take that shit down,” she said, nodding up at the sprig of mistletoe. “I don’t need my eyes burned any more tonight.”

 

It took a few heaves and wobbles, but Theon finally managed to stand up and remove the mistletoe, tape and all, from the game room doorway. He regarded it for a long moment and then shrugged. Maybe he really shouldn’t push his luck any further, especially after the lengths to which he’d had to go tonight. He turned around and headed for the laundry room. When he reached the doorway, he lurched and nearly fell over again.

 

Jon and Sansa were standing just underneath the cabinet where Catelyn Stark kept her mistletoe, wrapped around each other like paper around Christmas presents and kissing like there was no tomorrow. Jon had one hand cupped at the nape of Sansa’s neck, his fingers threaded through her hair, and she was caressing his curls with one of hers. At one point Jon drew back long enough to nuzzle her cheek gently and whisper something in her ear. Sansa blushed and grinned at him, and Theon expected cartoon hearts to come flying out of her eyes at any moment.

 

_Huh._ Jon Snow was a hell of a lot better with girls than he’d ever thought.

 

Theon grinned and pocketed the mistletoe. He could always save it for later – like at their wedding, where he could threaten to hold it over their heads through the whole bloody dinner if they didn’t name their firstborn son Theon in his honor. Or, come to think of it, name him best man. He grinned again as he turned away from the couple, whose lips were getting more fused together by the second.

 

Gods knew they’d given him more than enough material to make one hell of a toast.


End file.
